I’m in the middle my cat-yoga program when Bucks comes storming in.
“He’s going nuts!” He tells me.
“Who?”
“House-man of course. He’s losing it.”
“You’re tripping, Bucks. You’ve probably been inhaling that flea stuff they rubbed on your head. But I admit, he seems a bit uptight.”
“Uptight? I’ve played with harps that have less tension.”
“You have never played a harp,” I tell him.
“It’s a metaphor,” he says. “I have a poetic license.”
“You should write another poem for me. I like those.”
“I’ve got too much on my mind.”
“Like what?”
“Just things . . . beyond your female comprehension—worries. I think something’s going to happen, and I’ve seen the servants dusting off our cages.”
“Do you think they’re getting ready for the silver bird?” I ask him. Now I’m worried.
“I suspect another doctor trip,” he says. “If I get one more chip they can use me for Wi-Fi access. Sheesh!”
“Go take a nap,” I tell him. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”